I.
Letter To David From Guanajuato
Explaining Why
I Can’t Come Back To Iowa
The hand of this ciudad burns
with fever. I clamp my stethoscope
to the heart of the river, listen
for an alphabet of heat. Daybreak
has a moon in it, warming up.
Diego Rivera breathes on my neck.
II.
Letter to David From San Miguel
In Which The Latin
Religious Temper Is Considered
Churches here contain an inferno
of whispers. Outside, crosses grow
everywhere. On the cathedral dome,
Mary bends to the babe, her haloed
head perpetually at the oblique
angle that must twist her neck
so that only mezcal (with the worm)
can soothe its cold spasm.
III.
Letter to David From Mexico
In Which I Clarify
What There Is About A Small Town
the morning smell of disinfectant
slops, the bark of car horns, roof dogs
hubbub after dark, the aloe, plum tomato,
when smooth leaves reflect a drop of moon
the wall as fractal universe of stone,
the silent cattle egrets, feet turned to the sun
streets of icons and embroidery
the well of faces, brown and unsurprised
IV.
In A Letter To David
From South Of The Border
I Plan My Escape
After the overthrow of the turbine
that shoulders a crucifix, shadows
of bugambilia and saguaro vibrate
against implausible cerulean.
Tortillas y gueros burn away
as hammers surrender their usefulness.
From a town of brick and broken stone,
it is only a short gallop across the Rio
Grande, where we grin, sip ruby grenadine,
where we finally get away clean.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
